What's funny about a young lobbiest? Ignorance

Sequester? Nothing is funny about this sequester, unless you like to watch people fear, politicians squirm, and the sense of futility it brings to our nation!  So I’m not going any further on a topic that is on everyone’s thoughts and is a media frenzies field day.

What I would like to share is a joke on me. It only has to do with the words politician and lobbyists. When I was a very young mother I felt strongly about things like childcare, volunteering, principles.  With those topics in mind somehow I was roped into helping others to get the ‘child restraint law’ passed in the state of Oklahoma.

Getting my baby girl and I ready to go out was an adventure in itself.  But this cause drove me to the showers. Plotting nap time around this important event and getting the two of us to the capitol was tactical. 

I’ve always been kind of a zealot on my causes, eager, wide-eyed, excited to help.  I’m the grinning one doing anything and everything for the cause.  It makes me giddy knowing that I’m helping something bigger than my little life complaints.

On the day that I, and my beautiful baby in her stroller, went into the center of the capitol rotunda, there was a group of seasoned lobbyist all waiting to hit the halls running. I was ignorant, but joyful. Ready to show these law makers the innocent baby they were not protecting if they didn’t pass this law.  (As if I wasn’t going to buckle, strap, cover, guard and drive 19 miles per hour with this wonderful gift I had received in the name of Motherhood…) But needless to be redundant, my heart was singing, “Charge!”

The group was having a small meeting of the minds and one said, “We need to impress upon them that their constituents wants this law passed!”

I joyfully and loudly, remember it was in the rotunda, said, “Yeah, and their voters too!”

They all looked at me.  One guy leaned over and whispered, “Constituents are their voters…”

Oops, zeal before ignorance can make red faces.  We got the law passed that time, despite my massive ignorance.

Re-birthing...a new dawn

Hello out there in Blog-OhNo-sphere,

One more blogger, one more clacker in the big keys of cyberspace trying to reach an audience, but I cannot help myself.  I'm an addict to writing, telling on myself, learning, searching, growing, sharing, and… 'I'm Back'.

I love this idea of blogging, sharing, breaking into thought with maybe a glimmer of truth that might help others to chuckle at me or laugh at themselves.

Hopefully, in hearing others' "truths" it makes us take the time to think. Or do we just skim the surface? Too much information, too much to read, and time constraints on all of us, demands that the words that I type into this blog mean that much more.

This isn't a place for me to 'preach' at anyone. This blog is for me to think, share, give, and confess. Comment if you would like more or less of something. But what you'll find is a person deeply grateful for life's hard knocks and actually happy because of them.

When did I fall prey to this writing addiction? It has to be in childhood somewhere between all the moves and the lack of verbal liberty. You would think that being a natural born citizen to the United States of America that I would have been able to say anything that I would desire. But even in private homes in America reign tyranny.  It is called parenthood. 

I’m not here to bash the institution of parenthood, I am a parent plus.  What I am sharing is a writer can be created from outside squelching pressures that they have no control over; as well as, inside pressures that create a teapot effect.  Some call it bipolar.  I call it defensive mechanism.  I’m not a doctor, nor a psychologist, but the cheapest way to cure this problem may simply to become a Writer.  Who knows?  I might be right (write).
 
So, as I clack away on my laptop, I might be curing the common bipolar symptoms of the everyday-overly-talkative-female who holds up the Wal-Mart checkout lanes. I may be doing many a service writing away in my nightgown on my couch.

Burps, Farts, and Giggles

I am a one week old grandma and to tell you that this is the best thing that has ever happened to me since my youngest was born is totally an understatement of facts and emotions.  This little boy is the light of my life.  Every move, grunt, coo, burp and of course the multiple fartings brings me and his grandpa great pleasure.  Which is odd because if it were the other way around and it was his grandpa instead of the little boy that was doing all the gas passing it wouldn't be any pleasure to me at all!

Our little guy has been hiccupping, burping, and sputtering since he was born on November 18th.  With every sound that he makes he hears great glee, giggling, and even clapping.  His grandpa is so proud of the loud baby belches this small almost 8 pound tike makes. That he proudly tells everyone that he can how great "his boy" is.

But this almost got us into trouble...

The mama, who isn't exactly religious in one way or another, decided that we all needed to go as a family to my church that has a Thanksgiving service every year.  She was raised on going every Thanksgiving Day to hear the service and then the half hour or so of annual gratitude for the blessings brought forward through prayer and study.  I was pleased that even after being home for less than 2 days she had wanted to take her son to this service.

It took all of us as a tribe to get us to church with time to spare and all of us dressed and most of our hair done.  We sat as a family in the pews in the order we had planned, just in case this little sleeper decided that waking up during the service would be a fun idea.  Little momma stocked the diaper bag with all the "just in case" items that one could possibly plan for.  We all felt pretty confident that we could handle about any situation and that going to church was a good idea.

Sitting in between hymns, half hearing the readings and half focused on the gentle breathing and slight squirms of this warm, rosy cheeked sweet bundle, when all of a sudden he shared with us a thunderous fart!  It roared past the diaper through the soft pants and snuggly blanket up to our ears.  One look at the mom's face I knew that I had to look away immediately.  Except for the matriarch of the family, firmly listening to the lesson, grandpa was turning deep red holding his breath trying not to laugh!  The mom was gulping in giggles and laughter and I looked the other way trying to think about what was being read up front. 

Being laughy people and usually in all the wrong places and at the wrong times, I do not know how or what helped stop us from making a total ruckus.  This just about put us into hysterical laughing melt down. All I know is that if I had looked at my daughter at the same time she had looked at me we would both still be grounded by "G.G." (the Great Grandma)!

Guess you can plot, plan and try to be ready for the unexpected, but I'm not sure what you can put in a diaper bag that helps cork giggles!

Pink are for girls, not cats!

With my daughter just moments, well a couple of weeks, from having her first child I would like to share a story on this almost mother.

I’m not quite sure what she was thinking, how she got her art supplies or why she chose the pure white cat to be her paint medium but her three year old self thought that it was somehow a good idea.

Her dad is a CPA and this just happened to be late March and my due date for our second child was about two weeks away.  I was, as they say, “about to pop”.  We were waiting for this ever vigilant CPA to finish up his long tax season day so it was after dinner time when I was trying to get comfortable on the couch.

I do not remember the words that came out of my mouth as a pure white cat strolls in on my light beige carpet with a hot pink painted butt and hip.  All I could remember was gasping and my mouth flapping as I was trying to stop the cat from laying down and stamping pink cat fur prints on the beige carpet…did I tell you that the carpet was beige???  All I can remember was trying to waddle myself to the edge of the couch and push my stomach forward and somehow try to get up quickly…it wasn’t happening and just as I finally got into an upright standing position the cat laid down.  Another gasp and a sigh of relief because the hot pink fresh paint was on his upside and his white cat fur was on the carpet.

There was only one other person in the house accept for me and the baby in my womb and she couldn’t be blamed for anything yet so I called out to my daughter wondering what else was hot pink.  I guess my voice was scary and this young one started crying.  This told me she was still in her room with her toys like I thought she was but that included a jar of hot pink paint!  Looking at the relaxed half asleep cat and back at the other room the threat of more hot pink art made me go in for the jar.  She started wailing, “Daddddddy, Daddddddy.” Like I had beaten her and all I did was take the little artist’s paint from her.

Running, well as fast as a waddling nine month pregnant woman can run, I made for the cat just as he started getting up.  Bending over (that was a trick) and grabbing him my favorite top was forever cat stenciled with hot pink fuzzy like imprints.  Taking him to the kitchen sink because at this point the bathtub wasn’t an option, I put the cat under water.  The artist is still wailing, “Daddy, Dadddddy!” The cat is trying to claw my arm off.  The pink paint was now dripping rivers of pink streams down his white feet making him look tye dyed and the phone starts ringing.  Keeping the cat still in the water, grabbing the phone, it was dear CPA “Daddddy” on the phone checking in.  I told him I was about to go into labor as he hears the wailing in the back ground and the cat hissing.  I quickly explained the situation and got off…I noticed that he didn’t come home all that quickly, in fact, the cat was white and almost dry, the artist was whimpering in her bed and I was back on the couch trying to get my heart to settle down and the baby was having a kick ball session in my stomach as he walked in the back door!  The wailing began again and the cat hid under the bed.

Moral of the story?  I found out that cats usually lay consistently on their favorite side.  Beige carpets are for the rich and whimsical. When things are a bit sticky husbands have perfect timing on not being around.  And….I hope that my daughter locks up the paint, we have four dogs, light blue carpet and an artist on the way!

"I know where the knives are..."

There are a lot of things that young people endure without knowing that they have options.

My parents, not having extra cash, put me into the work force at twelve.  Mostly doing babysitting but by fifteen I was a social security card carrying worker of the productive society. 

I believe that as soon as one gets too busy with school schedules, friends, and real work most kids get out of the babysitting industry pretty quick.  There are those few that are into child development and want this as their future career who might take babysitting more seriously than the rest.  But my friends and I got out of this gig as fast as we could.

I babysat for many types of people.  Some that liked to party too much and stayed out way too late.  That was good money but exhausting.  There were the worriers who called constantly as if calling to check on their kids would somehow keep them safer.  There were the couples that were the main stays as customers and the one time callers.

Once there was a strange couple with a strange house and two strange children.  Their rooms were decorated strangely and the dining room was the epitome of the strange decorations.  It had a large mural of strange pictures on two sides and large mirrors on the other two sides.  I’m not sure if it was because they liked to see the pictures multiply in the mirrors or they liked to see themselves eat.  All I know was that it was strange.

I do not know what kind of games we played or books we read all I remember was as it was getting darker on this hot summer evening I started getting the kids ready for bed.  After taking each one to their strange rooms and tucking them in I went into the kitchen to get a soda. 

The house was strangely lit and the living room's couch seemed strangely far from the TV.  I was trying to watch but not have the sound up too loud so that I wouldn't be bothering the kids' sleep.  About fifteen minutes after the tucking in rituals I heard little footsteps in the kitchen.  I turned to see the strange little girl looking strangely at me.  I asked her what was the problem and she looked at me and said, "I know where the knives are."

Thinking that it was going to be a long night I looked at her and said, "So do I, now go to bed."

Milk is not Milf

               My children, I think, do not quite get me.  I’m an “enigma wrapped in a riddle”.  I try to be normal but I do not really know how.  So when my children include me in their lives I feel honored and hope that I do not embarrass them too badly.  I think what they do to make me seem normal is call me “cute” to justify in their minds my oddness.

               My daughter invited me to her new apartment for a pre-birthday party for her visiting sister.  She had a group of her friends from her college classes and she was making these delicious spring rolls.  Everyone was having fun. It was so nice to see my girls laughing and hear the stories that the young people were sharing.

               It was so much fun to get to be included in this party until a young college guy I thought say in my direction “I would like some milk.”

I said, “Oh you want some milk?”

He looked at me and said, “No Milf. You are a milf.”

I looked at him with a blank questioning look.  He and several others started bursting out in laughter.  I was really lost then and looked to my daughters. They grinned big but then realized I had absolutely no clue what this young man was saying.

“MILF, Mom?” One daughter said.

I shrugged and embarrassed said, “What?”

“MOM?!” said the other.

Still looking blank someone said, “Mother I would like to…”

The embarrassed look on my face went to a whole other level. I think the levels of red in my face went from pink to maroon. Words came stuttering out of my mouth.  I didn’t know what to say.  The group burst in loud fits of laughter.

All I could end up saying was, “Well…guess you don’t want any milk then…”

Why? Why do children ask, “Why?”

Have you ever noticed how some children are louder than others?  It isn’t that they are deaf or think you are deaf they just speak louder than other children.  I do not know if it is because they are all so filled with excitement that everything is at least three or four clicks above normal volume, they are just louder. My youngest daughter should have gone into stage acting.  She has excellent timing, now.  She has a great sense of comedic talent, now.  She understands how people tick, now.  She is highly sensitive to people’s emotions, now.  She has always had a clear, fill the back row of any theater, type voice.

I used to blame it on her school and the other children, thinking that she was just needing that volume to be heard over the den of the hall or class.  We would enjoy her stories but sometimes ask her to lower her voice.  Unfortunately there was one time that if I had asked her to lower her voice it was already too late.

You know how children have a wonderful sense of wonder…they just wonder so many things and then find the word, “why?”  This child didn’t abuse me or the word “why” with too many questions.  But when she thought, she thought big questions.  It was one of those questions that just about got me into hot water…but only if I answered the question in the wrong way.  It wasn’t that I would answer wrongly if I had been given time to think about an appropriate way to answer it.  It was the loudness, the timing, the place.  Have you ever noticed that when the question, “why” comes up there are times you just do not know the real correct fast answer?

One of those times occurred all in one very important question and moment.

My daughter and I were walking down the mall one day.  Now that I think of it the acoustics of a mall hall can really add to the tenor of this story…  We were chatting and looking in the windows at the mall.  There were several people here and there.  People were coming, going, passing each other.  They were in front of us and behind us.

My daughter started her important question with the usual “why” but this time it just about stopped me in my tracks as it significantly slowed the lady passing us down to a near crawl. 

In her innocent loud three year old voice I could hear her ask, “Mom, why are there black people?” 

She didn’t realize at that age that some people like to be called African Americans and because of how she was raised there wasn’t a strong sense of difference between any peoples brought forth over another.  People are and were people in our lives, sometimes a gender clarification of this girl or that boy but not much else.  The woman that had been passing us pretty quickly and then slowed her pace to a crawl just happened to be an African American.  At that moment it felt like everyone in the mall was waiting for my answer and I felt like my brain had gone flat line. 

As a big turn to God person I really turned to Him then.  I thought, “Oh, Father!  Please give me an answer that will give everyone here the answer they need to hear!”

That was about all I could send forth.  I had a three year old and an adult.  As quickly as the question and my prayer were, what I said to this young person was this:  “You know how we have lots of different colored flowers in our back yard?”

She nodded.

“Well God loves all the different colors that He created in His people.”

She smiled and nodded again as if I had answered her in a way her little three year old self could understand.  The lady smiled and picked back up her brisk walk.  I felt relief that I was just a simple witness to a higher truth.  May I say the word “relief” again?  I felt relief.

I’m not sure if when she had that “I’m thinking” face on I would rush her to the car after that.  But all I know is that through the years I have asked many times,

“Why?! Why do I always get the hard questions?”